


Temperature

by NaitiaClo960



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Body Language, Broken Dean Winchester, Comforting Castiel (Supernatural), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love Confessions, M/M, Torture, Violence, but the rest remains the same, i swear it's not that sad, kind of an AU, like Alastair is still alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaitiaClo960/pseuds/NaitiaClo960
Summary: "To refuse to fight is the same as giving permission to be used."Alastair managed to get back to Earth and get his hands on Dean Winchester, again.While Dean is forced to endure the tortures of this psycho demon a second time, his will diminishes day by day and he despairs to see his brother or Castiel show up and save his life. In a burst of hopelessness, he finds a way to appease his suffering a little.But how is Castiel supposed to fix what Alastair broke once they got Dean back?(Please minds the tags).





	Temperature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibbins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibbins/gifts), [SauleMarron19427](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SauleMarron19427/gifts).



> Hey guys!  
> So this is my first ever English fanfic although I'm a French writer, so I hope you'll like it. Please feel free to comment and tell me what you thought about it, it will means the world to me! Also, sorry not sorry for the angst and all, please minds the tag.
> 
> Special warmhearted thanks to Tibbins for the amazing correction (go read her stuff now, she's a genius) and SauleMarron19427 for the plot. Love you both!
> 
> Music listened to during this one : "Brothers in Arms" by Dire Straits  
> Enjoy

To refuse to fight is the same as giving permission to be used.

It was a sentence Dean had read leafing through a book in the huge library of the Men of Letters bunker. One night, when he was bored, he had grabbed a book at random and spent the night reading about the representations of the body and its uses throughout the centuries. _To refuse to fight is the same as giving permission to be used._

A drop of icy water slipped down the back of his neck, sending a painful shiver down his spine.

He had learned during his nights of insomnia that when someone allows others to hurt them, they tend to enjoy it. Tell someone that they can use you as they see fit, and it won’t take you more than a few hours to start getting into it. It's funny how the illusion of omnipotence pushes people to do things that they would have usually refused to even try.

The toes on his right foot started to tingle, so he shifted his weight to his left. His whole body hurt, suspended in the air as he was, with only the tips of his feet grazing the ground. It had been a few hours since he lost the feeling in his arms, numbed by the uncomfortable position. He shook himself and tried to focus...

According to one research worker, the feeling of consent is a key step in the process of suffering. If the person who is the victim of violence decides to engage completely in the pain and its consequences, then a "violation of his integrity" no longer applies, but simply of tacit understanding between the donor and the receiver.

Dean had not consented to this.

Despite his effort to distract himself by channeling his inner Sam, the cramp that caught him in the top of his calf got the better of him. Dean let out a hiss of pain while trying to relieve the sore muscle as best he could. The chains above him rattled as he swayed pathetically in the damp room. His heel briefly met the concrete column a few inches behind him, but besides kicking himself forward again like the world’s least fun swing there wasn’t much to gain there. He finally gave up, as always, and let his toes grate against the cement below him, waiting for the cramp to pass.

How long had he been here? He’d stopped counting. The days bled into each other, an unending monotony of pain. A week? Maybe three? What if it had been months? In some ways, he felt like he’d always been here. He forced his eyes open, feeling more than hearing the slight crack as whatever gunk had crusted on his lashes became unstuck, he didn’t always open his eyes, it made no real difference. In here it was dark, always. Only a small neon light sizzled in one corner of the room provided enough light to make out his own dangling legs. Sometimes the neon would trip and he would go blind for a few seconds before that migrane-inducing buzz would start again and his feet would reappear.

He was sick of this room, of how unchanging it was; he closed his eyelids again and made himself think. He had to think, he had to _focus_. Above all, he had to stay calm. A reassuring face appeared to his mind’s eye. A square and masculine face, framed by a beard of a few days and topped with an unruly mop of black hair, all on top of a coat too wide for him. The dimple in the hollow of the man's cheek jerked Dean's lip up, too weak to smile, and the mischievous gleam in those blue eyes was enough to calm his abused body slightly.

_When are you coming?_

This question played on a loop in a corner of his mind and the longer it went without an answer, the more it fed into his fears; if he came, he’d be in danger. If he came, it might be too late. And worst of all: why would he come in the first place?

"Cas..." he whispered weakly, shifting his balance again.

A few minutes later, snatches of conversation sound in the corridor behind the door he could only just make out. The muffled voices exchanged a conversation he couldn’t follow before disappearing completely. One set of footsteps retreated and the silence that followed was the most cruel. Dean blinked and chewed on his tongue, watching for the slightest sign of movement in the shadows under the door, his heart pounding in his throat. When he was almost sure that he must have been mistaken, both parties must have left him alone, the familiar creak of the hinges echoed through the room.

If he still had the strength, Dean would have surely flinched or felt nauseous, but to be honest, he was just too damn tired to be surprised. When, exactly, had this door not opened when he begged it to remain closed?

"Hello, beautiful."

Dean could not repress a thrill of disgust at the sound of the sickly, nasal voice that haunted whatever snatches of sleep he managed in this place. His muscles contracted on instinct before he remembered that it was useless to move and he slumped a little more, his arms regaining their feeling just enough to shoot lightning along his nerves as he begged the ground to engulf him.

"It's been a long time since I came to see you."

Long time? Perhaps. He didn’t know anymore.

"I'll end up being a bad instructor if I'm not more regular in your training."

Dean heard the smirk in his voice, as though that was supposed to be a joke.

The footsteps approached slowly, slamming into the silence of his cell, invading the air and seeming to pound directly inside Dean’s head. He didn’t succeed in suppressing the nervous jolt that jerked his hand and the sound of his chains magnified the smile on Alastair’s face.

"You look so good when you're scared, Dean; of all my students, only you have managed to keep that raw terror in the back of your eyes. It’s fascinating how eagerly you give yourself over to fear.”

Dean's breathing quickened without him realising it and he forced himself to lift his head and gauge the distance that separated him from the demon. He began by distinguishing his shoes: perfectly polished, planted several feet away, then the bottom of his ordinary looking black pants. His eyes swept up long legs and a thin but powerful body before stopping at his bearded chin. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Alastair’s eyes, too frightened by those cold grey irises, so much more terrifying than their demon black. He also didn’t want to give Alastair any excuse to begin the festivities early.

A hand grabbed him roughly under the chin and forced him to raise his head, but Dean kept his eyes on the beard. Alastair considered him a moment, and Dean felt like an animal sent to the slaughterhouse.

"Doggy is tired, hmm? It's very rude not to answer when someone is talking to you, Dean."

A shudder threatened to overwhelm Dean at the sound of his name in the mouth of this monster.

"We'll try to train you a little bit, do you agree?" Alastair added with sharp grin.

Dean wanted to scream, but there was no one to hear it that would care. No, he didn’t agree, he didn't want to be here! He didn’t deserve to be here.

_When are you coming?_

He didn’t know if he could endure one more torture session in the company of this man, demon, whatever. The mere sound of his voice paralysed him, the words remained stuck in his throat whereas, before, he would have come out with some kind of witty retort. He was scared. So scared that Alastair would touch him again, use his body as a vulgar tool. He just didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

_When are you coming to get me?_

Alastair reached out to lift the handcuffs from Dean's hanging hook before releasing him. He collapsed heavily against the concrete column, his legs giving out immediately. He still couldn’t move, though whether it was through physical weakness or fear he couldn’t tell. Alastair crouched to his level, his face still split with a repulsive smile, his eyes bulging with madness as he stared at his favourite toy.

When he finally pushed a hand towards him, Dean's heart missed a beat and an ultimate thought crossed his mind. A small voice begged him in the back of his head: _don’t fight it. Give him permission to do that to you, don’t worry._ If he let himself go, maybe fundamentally he’d suffer less. Maybe that old book was right after all, maybe the solution was right here: if he let Alastair have fun with his body, then it will no longer be a victim and torturer situation. Dean would consent, he would be a participant. Alastair would not be able to reach him if there was nothing more to steal.

Dean sighed feverishly and clenched his jaw, staring at a point off to his left. He was desperate, exhausted, he’d been here for he didn’t even know how long and he was just done. If this was his life now, if there was something that could give him even a few extra seconds of rest, then what did it matter if he gave in? What else did he have to lose that Alastair had not taken from him anyway? The macabre inventiveness of this monster had already broken him. Didn’t Alastair tell him once that he liked seeing him fighting and crying? That he liked to hear him scream? So this time, he would be quiet and obedient. Alastair would get tired, his ordeal would end, and maybe, if he got lucky, Alastair would kill him nice and quick.

What other options did he have? He couldn’t move.

Consequently, Dean didn’t bat an eyelid when Alastair's knuckles came into violent contact with the side of his head. He saw a frown pinch his torturer's face when he still hadn’t reacted by the third blow, but his vision became unreliable quite quickly after that, trying to to take refuge in a safe place in the back of his mind. Dean didn’t get up either when Alastair threw him backwards, his skull striking against the cement. He felt blood run from the opening on the top of his head, sticking to his hair and mingling with the dried blood of previous sessions. He didn’t utter the slightest cry.

Listless and trembling on the ground, Dean perceived in the distance a metallic noise followed by the rustle of fabric. He realized that Alastair had removed his belt when the buckle of it fell down wildly on his back, forcing him to arch, dumb. A flash of pain passed through him, a snag in his breath, but his mouth remained resolutely closed. After many minutes, Dean began to wonder if he’d made the right choice; the less he reacted, the more furious Alastair's blows became as he tried to pull out even the slightest sound from him.

_He's going to get bored, everything's gonna be okay, he's going to get bored_ , Dean repeated to himself, gritting his teeth a little bit more to hold back his tears of pain.

"Alright..." Alastair growled bitterly after what might have been a few minutes or several hours, angrily throwing his belt against the concrete column, jangling the metal end. "Keep going, Dean, that's fine," He said, the furious tone of his voice betraying his anger in front of Dean's amorphous behaviour.

The touch of Alastair's cold hand against the top of his hip made him jump, his tee-shirt bunched up as Alastair's long fingers crept beneath it; he narrowly held back a whimper as the man above him slowly dug his nails into the skin of his back.

"Stay still." Alastair ordered coldly.

Dean ended up closing his eyes, uncontrolled tears finally rolling from the corner of his eyelids. No, no, no. He was supposed to get tired, why was he pushing further? Maybe he just had to hold out a little longer, just a few more minutes? If he could do that, he would win, Alastair would lose interest in him. He bit his tongue until his mouth was flooded with coppery tang and his whole body seemed to lock up. Blood pounded in his ears, giving him the impression of having his head plunged underwater. He couldn’t hold back the violent tremor that ran through his body as more cold fingertips made their way across his skin. _Did I make the right choice?_

* * *

He awoke to a new sound, something reassuring, and a pleasant smell that was oddly familiar. His head seemed so heavy, numb with the vibrations of the ground beneath him. He wasn’t cold anymore, he was even comfortable; it didn’t feel like concrete. He tried to open his eyes but quickly changed his mind when the sliver of light he let in made nausea curl unpleasantly in his stomach.

Memories poured into him and had the effect of a cold shower. The blood sticking to his clothes, the concrete column, the neon; the constant buzzing was gone, the light must have tripped out again, but no, that wasn’t right… it had been light when he looked. Instantly, he tensed. In his movement, he recognised the texture of a warm blanket over him, but that didn’t help when his memory told him that he should be _cold_. The creaking door, the pristine shoes, the fear. Dean let out a breath, jerky with anxiety. Where was he now? He still couldn’t convince himself to open his eyes. The concrete, the belt... the book.

His back stabbed at him horribly, but that was nothing compared to the rest of him, his feet felt like they’d been skinned, his arms burned from the strain of holding his entire weight for days at a time, his neck ached and his head throbbed where it had collided with concrete more times than he’d bothered to keep track of. The fact that he was assessing himself now was twisting his brain, but he was somewhere else now, something had changed.

In a reflex of self-protection that he thought had been beaten, stabbed and shot from him long ago, he tried to become as small as possible on this moving ground, curling his knees up against his chest. His breathing became more agitated, everything seemed suddenly too loud, and despite his eyes being firmly shut, he saw images flashing behind his eyelids. He curled into himself tighter, wrapping his arms around himself, squeezing his eyes shut even harder. He was so, so cold.

In his state of nascent panic, he didn’t immediately perceive the movement behind his back. His breathing seemed to resound in his own ears and the vibrations he found pleasant before were now something frightening and _too much_. A slight pressure against his ribs, however, made him hold his breath. He had imagined it, he must have. He was alone, alone in another dark and unknown place.

But the friction resumed gently, small circular motions against his ribs. In half a second, the urge to vomit seized him again and he uttered a strangled exclamation. A hand was on his side, someone was behind him, someone was _touching_ him. Automatically, Dean raised his hands over his head. _No, please no, please no_. The litany took hold of his brain and he felt like his heart was going to explode. _MOVE,_ he screamed inside his own head. _MOVE. Don’t let him start again. MOVE!_

The hand on his ribs stopped, as if suddenly uncertain, then it continued its ministrations. It never went lower, never higher, it just stroked the fabric of his shirt as if it was trying to warm him. The hand itself seemed warm, reassuring, and after another round of movement, Dean understood that there was something unusual in this whole situation. He didn’t know where he was or with whom, or even why the constant pain he had felt for weeks seemed less present. What if it was a new means of torture that Alastair had found? If all this was doomed to stop abruptly, reacquaint him to what comfort was just to break him a little more?

He didn’t want to, he couldn’t anymore. Alastair was supposed to lose interest in all this, Dean was supposed to get some respite. Apparently, that damn book was wrong. Giving Alastair permission to use him did nothing but contribute to his suffering. In a sudden rush of horror, Dean’s eyes snapped open and he found the strength to push on his crooked arms in order to throw himself out of the reach of the relentless hand. In actual fact, he only managed to move few inches further up what appeared to him now as an extra mattress, but it was something; he had to show Alastair that he was still alive, that he still had free will, that he belonged to _himself_. Alastair didn’t own him, although by now he was probably certain that he did and Dean didn’t really know what to do to try to fix his mistake.

The hand didn’t return immediately, but Dean perceived a quickening breath. He didn’t look, didn’t raise his head, he just stared at the stained cotton of the mattress below him. _I have to get out of here_. Swallowing a groan of pain when the wounds on his back flared, he pushed on his trembling arms in the hope of straightening up in a sitting position.

_Move away_ , it was absolutely necessary that he move away, put a distance between him and the thing behind him, examine the environment in which he was, focus. Right now, Dean was operating on pure survival instinct.

Even before he could lift himself completely off the ground, a pair of strong arms came to grip him from behind and forced him back down. Dean let loose a hoarse scream and kicked out, ignoring as best as he could the burning bolt that ran through his sore body. He fought like a wildcat, trying as much to escape Alastair's grip as to hit him with all his strength. The man behind him was now calling his name, but he could barely hear it over the frantic pounding of his own heart. His opponent was stronger, though Dean had the horrible feeling that maybe if he wasn’t so weak and beat to hell, he might have won. He began to choke; in panic, he almost forgot to bring air into his lungs.

The man called his name again with a supplicating voice before grabbing his shoulders and turning him sharply around. The air left Dean's body completely when he thought of those iron-grey eyes, chips of dirty ice in an evil face. He was convinced that seeing Alastair so close to him would be the end of him.

But after an unexpected flash of beautiful blue, his heart fell to the bottom of his chest. Dean planted his nails in the forearms of the man but stopped struggling, as if he didn’t know if his gesture was intended to hurt the other or to hold him back. Castiel let out a deep breath at Dean's sudden change of behaviour.

"It's me..." he hushed in the now silence, his voice cracking slightly at the end.

Castiel was looking at him with pained eyes, clutching Dean's shoulders with all his human strength. He was short-winded because of the struggle, and the dark circles that drooped under his eyes made him look like a living dead man; that and his pale skin, his few days worth of beard and his trembling shoulders. Dean reduced the pressure of his nails in Cas's skin.

As he was still saying nothing, his breathing still irregular, Castiel began to restart a slight movement of friction on his shoulders. His hands were _warm_.

"It's me, Dean." He repeated in the same soft tone.

Dean gasped in air.

"I... you are..." Castiel bit the inside of his cheek briefly. "We came to get you, Sam is driving and I... I wanted to be here when you woke up."

Sam’s driving... As he glanced over Cas’s shoulder, Dean finally recognized the walls of a truck shaken by the irregularity of the road. They were in the back of the vehicle, plunged in the dim light with the mattress held to the floor of the vanonly by their weight and a woollen blanket thrown haphazardly lying where he had thrown it.

_We came to get you_.

"Dean?" Called the once-angel, seeing the devastated expression of his companion. "You have nothing to fear, you know that, right?"

And those simple words unlocked something in Dean. Suddenly, his breathing resumed and he took the biggest breath of his life, like coming up from a deep dive. His muscles relaxed and if Castiel hadn’t been there to hold him, he would have fallen back with all his weight against the mattress. Without thinking further, he tilted forward and buried his face in his friend’s neck, taking a deep breath, tasting the smell of Castiel like he’s starving, which he probably is, but that thought was far away right now.

When he nuzzled deeper into Cas’s shirt, tasting the salt of his own tears, Cas seemed to come out of his torpor and hugged Dean back, whispering reassuring words to try to calm him.

_It's over. Everything is fine. I'm here now, Dean. He’ll never hurt you again, I promise you. We're going back home. You are so strong._

They remained that way for several long minutes, his violent sobs gradually subsiding under Castiel’s touch. Strangely, he no longer felt the need to pull away at the slightest touch, in fact, it was the only thing he was certain that he wanted. Dean stammered nonsensical apologies that Castiel patiently dismissed with a reassuring "hush", one by one.

"I thought you wouldn’t come." Dean croaked out, the final thought that had haunted him for so long.

Castiel tightened his grip.

"I... we spent three atrocious weeks trying to find a track you down. Oh Dean, I'm sorry..."

Dean shook his head against the angel's neck and exhaled with relief. The panic had finally stopped imprisoning his throat in a vise and breathing seemed easier. The room became silent again, punctuated only by the vibrations of the vehicle.

"I should have come earlier," muttered Castiel, his breath dampening Dean's neck.

"It’s alright Ca-"

"No!"

Dean closed his mouth and pulled away slightly, uncertain. Castiel seemed angry now.

"Sorry," he said, dropping a trembling kiss on Dean’s skin.

"Everything’s fine," repeated Dean, unsure how to approach things.

"I would have given everything to spare you that, you know that, don’t you?"

A rush of anxiety mounted in Dean when Cas pronounced the word "that". Did Castiel know what had happened? In what state was he when he and Sam found him in his cell? He fervently hoped that it was a coincidence and that Cas was only talking about the wounds he could _see_. Dean finally moved away from Castiel and met his bright, sincere eyes.

"I love you." Castiel murmured, so full of feeling that it seemed to tremble.

Dean nodded. He gently nudged his lips against Cas’s and kissed him tenderly. He tried to convey everything he had into that kiss, all his emotions, his fears, his confidence, his love and his questions. When they separated for lack of air, there was barely an inch between them.

"I know." Dean finally answered, his voice low.

_Everything is fine_ , repeated a voice in his head. _Now all is fine. He can’t reach you anymore, everything is fine._

Castiel's next kiss dragged out his first smile in weeks.

"Me too."

He was finally warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I said it was ALMOST a happy ending haha. Hope you liked to read it as much as I liked to write it, kudos and reviews are more than welcome.  
> Come say hi on Tumblr, I'm naitiaclo960writings.
> 
> See ya!


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